


the rest must be lies

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [93]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Best Friends, Broken Friendships, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Divorce, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Friends to Lovers, Guilt, Healing, Heavy Angst, Honesty, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, Legal Drama, Loss of Trust, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Infidelity, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Post-Divorce, Reconciliation, Restitution, Second Chances, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, trust building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-02-07 13:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12842061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: Maybe he shouldn't have barged back into Merlin’s life like this – it isn't fair, or kind, and it certainly isn't the apology Merlin deserves - but he’d been telling the truth when he’d said it that day: he can think of nowhere else he’d rather be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fourth instalment of the Telephone series. Although technically it is a stand-alone, you may want to read the rest of the series first for context if you haven't done so already!
> 
> Title from Bic Runga's [_Honest Goodbyes_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QiMUUc6PUGE).

 

Gwen calls during his second week in Ealdor; or rather, Gwen’s lawyer calls, a man with a brisk, no-nonsense voice and vaguely sympathetic manner who somehow manages to drive home just how much of a mess Arthur has made of his life. He had known, of course, that when he left there would be no going back, but it’s still somehow a shock to realise this is permanent: that the change he’s been gathering the courage to make for months now has become real and irreversible.

 

“Ms Thomas will be pursuing a divorce on the basis of unreasonable behaviour,” the man says, crisp and cool; no judgment. He has probably done this a thousand times before. “Should you wish to contest this claim, I would advise you to obtain legal counsel as soon as possible, as you will need to file a written– ”

 

“No.” Arthur clears his throat. “No, it won’t be contested.”

 

“Very well, Mr Pendragon. In that case, please supply us with either your current address or the address of your lawyer, and I will see to it that you are provided with a copy of the relevant documentation as soon as possible.”

 

Arthur gives him the name of his solicitors in London, the same firm that usually handles the work for Camelot. They’re not exactly experts on domestic affairs, but at this point it hardly matters. He just wants to get it over with. 

 

“Thank you, Mr Pendragon. I’ve no doubt someone will be in touch with you shortly. Have a good evening.”

 

“Wait,” Arthur blurts. “When you speak to Gwen, I’m…will you tell her I’m sorry?”

 

There is a rustle of papers on the other end of the line. “Ms Thomas has informed me that she does not wish to receive any personal communication from you at this time,” the lawyer says, and hangs up.

 

Arthur receives the first draft of the Divorce Petition a week later, and with it a copy of the contract that will – if he signs it – make him the CEO of Camelot Holdings for the foreseeable future. He waits until Merlin has gone to bed to open the envelope, spreading its contents out on the kitchen table and flattening the pages with the palms of his hands. It’s strange, but he wishes his father were here. Uther would not have approved of the divorce, and he would've been appalled had he known about Arthur’s feelings for Merlin, but it would have been easier, somehow, to have something to orient himself against, to know where he stood in relation to his father's viewpoint. Without Uther’s determined insistence on one course or another, Arthur finds himself dithering over the documents in a most uncharacteristic manner, the words blurring before his eyes as he tries to figure out what to do for the best.  

 

He is still sitting there when Merlin wanders into the kitchen a few hours later, no doubt wondering why the lights are still on.

 

“Arthur? What are you doing?”

 

“Reading,” Arthur says, since that much is obvious. He can almost hear Merlin rolling his eyes behind him. 

 

“At three in the morning?”

 

“I have-– there are some things I need to take care of, that's all. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you."

 

“You didn’t wake me.” Merlin pads across the room in bare feet and leans over Arthur’s shoulder, his gaze skimming the letterheads as he takes in their contents. Arthur swallows hard, closing his eyes as he catches a whiff of Merlin's favourite shampoo. The scent brings with it a sudden but intense sense memory, not of sex but of closeness; the intimacy they used to share. He remembers very little of that night they spent together – yet another regret to add to the list – but he remembers  _Merlin_  perfectly, as if the man had been imprinted on his mind indelibly from the moment they met. 

 

“She won’t talk to me,” he says quietly. “She’s gone back to using her maiden name, and her lawyer refuses to relay my messages.”

 

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” 

 

“So am I,” Arthur replies. He tips his head back to seek out Merlin’s eyes. “I was such an ass, to both of you.”

 

“At least you admit it,” Merlin says lightly, but he’s avoiding Arthur’s gaze, teeth worrying at his lower lip. The sight makes Arthur’s insides clench a little, and the guilt that has been held at bay since he stepped off the train wells up again. Maybe he shouldn't have barged back into Merlin’s life like this – it isn't fair, or kind, and it certainly isn't the apology Merlin deserves - but he’d been telling the truth when he’d said it that day: he can think of nowhere else he’d rather be.

 

“Do you think I’m a terrible person?” he asks softly, taking hold of Merlin’s wrist like it might keep him from drowning. He hears Merlin sigh; feels the sleep-soft heat of him against his back and leans into it. “Merlin?”

 

“You’ve made mistakes, Arthur,” Merlin says quietly. “Maybe a lot of them, I don’t know. But I know you didn’t act out of malice, or deliberately set out to hurt anyone.” The fingers of his free hand tangle in Arthur’s mussed-up hair, tugging gently for a moment before sliding down to rest at his nape. Arthur suppresses a shiver. “So, no, I don’t think you’re a terrible person.”

 

“Just a bit of a prat,” Arthur supplies, and is rewarded with the faint huff of a laugh, warm against the back of his neck.

 

“Definitely a bit of a prat.” 

 

In spite of himself, Arthur smiles, and on impulse he presses a kiss to the palm of Merlin’s hand, running his thumb gently over the bones of Merlin’s wrist. He regrets the gesture immediately when Merlin stiffens and pulls away, but when he turns to apologise, Merlin simply shakes his head.

 

“Get some sleep, Arthur,” he says, his blue eyes tired and painfully wary. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

Arthur does not feel better in the morning.

 

He wakes to a strange bed in a strange room, and for a moment he wonders what the hell he’s doing here. If there had ever been any hope at all, then surely the past six years have buried it; surely nothing can survive in such a silence for so long.

 

And yet, he can still feel the warmth of Merlin’s palm beneath his lips, the way his hand had jerked in surprise when Arthur kissed it. It was as if something in him had been starving until that touch, slumbering beneath the weight of a nuclear winter, and he is only now remembering that there used to be such a thing as sun. The sudden thaw makes his chest ache, makes a sudden longing wrap around his ribs like a vine. He wants to stay. He wants to sleep here, on Merlin’s lumpy couch, and wake up every morning to the sound of Merlin swearing as he burns his toast. He wants to come home after a long day to find Merlin asleep in an armchair with his glasses on, a book lying askew atop his chest. He wants all of this, and he wants to kiss Merlin, too, so often that he doesn’t have to worry about forgetting the shape of his mouth or the way it feels to hold him.

 

He tries not to think of it as _living with Merlin_ , but that’s exactly what he wants.

 

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks, stopping in the doorway of the kitchen when he’s up and dressed. Merlin’s hand slips on a dish he’s drying and it clatters to the floor; spins, but doesn’t break.

 

“You startled me,” he says, in lieu of answering. “Since when are you so quiet?”

 

“Merlin.”

 

Merlin sighs. “Of course not.” He retrieves the dish and rinses it again, turning it round and round in his hands until it squeaks against the teatowel. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

 

“Okay.” Arthur can’t read his tone, so he takes the words at face value. “As long as you don’t—I mean, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”

 

“I know you weren’t.” Merlin attempts a smile, but it falls flat. “I just—forgot, that’s all.”

 

“Forgot what?”

 

But Merlin is shaking his head, his mouth clamped shut, hands gripping the rim of that stupid dish like he’s trying to crush it with his fingers. He looks as if he’s going to be sick—or worse, like he’s going to cry—and Arthur has never hated himself so much as he does in that moment. Six years is a long time, or so he keeps reminding himself, but it’s obvious that the damage he’d inflicted is still fresh, and he has no idea what to do about it.

 

“All right,” he says, backing away. It’s the last thing he wants to do, but this isn’t just about what _he_ wants anymore, and he has to remember that. “I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

 

He goes out, buys a coffee at the corner café and turns down Main Street towards the _Bell, Book and Candle_ , the ancient bookshop where Merlin’s step-aunt works. He’s been helping out there every other day since he’d arrived; a job of sorts, although he doesn’t need the money.

 

“Good morning, Arthur dear,” Alice says when he comes in, giving him a hug and pressing an oatmeal biscuit into his hands. The biscuits have always been Arthur’s favourite, but it seems that he has forgotten their taste until now: warm and sweet, chewy in the centre in the best way. He takes a sip of his coffee with his eyes closed and feels strangely like crying.

 

“This place hasn’t changed a bit, you know,” he says. “It’s exactly the same.”

 

“Not _exactly_ the same.” Her hair is white now, shot through with rust, and like her the shop is showing its age around the edges, the old paint peeling and faded, the books’ spines creased and bleached by the sun. In the essentials, however, it is still as he remembers it, and there are days when Arthur feels as if, in reconnecting with Merlin, he has discovered a back door into his former life, the part that he had shut himself away from when he married Gwen.

 

“I love it here,” he says, and Alice smiles as she hands him the books for this week’s counter display. It’s not exactly difficult or important work, but it helps; it gives him something to do with his hands.

 

Later, Alice sits with him on the back step and shares her lunch with him, roasted chicken breast on thick rye bread that tastes as if it has just come out of the oven. Arthur eats with his fingers, remembering the days he had spent here with Merlin, playing hide and seek amongst the books. He had been sent to stay with Morgana for the first time, the grown-up sister he had never known, and he had been so lonely it hurt to breathe. Merlin had shown him around, had teased him, had gone out of his way to make Arthur feel welcome when his life was otherwise falling apart.

 

Merlin had always been good at occupying empty spaces, be they in Arthur’s heart or in his thoughts, and he doesn’t realise the direction in which his mind has wandered until Alice nudges his shoulder, nodding out the window towards the surgery down the street.

 

“He talks about you all the time,” she says, her dark eyes knowing in her lined face. “I think he misses you.”

 

“I miss him, too,” Arthur admits softly, the words coming out dry against the back of his throat. “I want to come back.”

 

“Why don’t you?”

 

“It’s not that simple.” Arthur shakes his head, and she looks at him for a long time, as though choosing her next words carefully.

 

“Maybe it should be,” she says.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

On Friday, Arthur makes Merlin dinner. It’s not supposed to be anything fancy—it’s not as if he’s a brilliant cook; it’s not as if this is a _date_ —but he makes an effort with the wine and table settings anyway, partly out of nerves and partly because it feels good, to do something for someone else for a change. He’s been wallowing in his own problems for too long, and there is something reassuring about the knowledge that other people still exist—that they still eat, and sleep, and drink, and spend quiet hours at home with their families, even if he cannot.

 

It’s not until Merlin comes home—late, as usual—and stops dead in the doorway that Arthur realises how it must look; he has the lights down low, soft music in the background, the good china all laid out like an invitation. It’s something he would have done for Gwen, a lifetime ago. “Wait—” he blurts, scrambling out of his chair, but Merlin is already backing into the hall.

 

“I’m sorry, I just—left something in the car,” he stammers, and then he’s off down the corridor like a startled rabbit, not even pausing to shut the door behind him.

 

“ _Stupid_ ,” Arthur says to the empty room.

 

He finds Merlin sitting on the front step, his shoulders shaking with what might be cold—or shock—or tears, and after a moment, Arthur sits down beside him, making sure to keep a careful distance between them.

 

“I was trying to say thank you,” he says when Merlin doesn't look up, watching his breath stream away into the cool night air. “For letting me stay, for everything—I didn’t mean to overstep. I’m sorry.”

 

Merlin makes an indistinct sound. “It’s fine. Nice, even.”

 

“It upset you.”

 

“No.” He scrubs his hands over his face, and when he looks back at Arthur his expression is wry. “No, that was my own fault; I shouldn’t have assumed. Only—after the other night…”

 

“I know.” The way Merlin is sitting makes Arthur hurt inside: he has his weight canted forward, elbows tucked in close to his sides and his head down. He looks like a stray animal huddled in its den, his shoulders hunched and vulnerable and his curved spine aching to be touched, but the few inches of space between them might as well be an ocean for all Arthur is able to cross them now. “I made butter chicken,” he offers, after a moment. “You still like that, right? And there’s cheesecake for dessert. Alice made it.”

 

“Well, if _Alice_ made it,” Merlin says. “I suppose it will at least be edible.”

 

“I’ll have you know that I am an excellent cook,” Arthur retorts with dignity. “The incident in your dorm room was a collective hallucination and what’s more it never happened.”

 

“If you say so.” And there’s a trace of amusement in Merlin’s voice now, something lighter threading through the dark. He screws his eyes shut for a moment and then opens them, as though making a decision. “Look, I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot.”

 

“What for?”

 

“For—” He gestures. “I keep running out on you.”

 

There’s a lot more to that statement than Arthur really feels able to unpack right now, so he goes for the easiest solution and shrugs. “That’s okay,” he says. “You were taken by surprise. I get it.”

 

“It’s not that.” Merlin shakes his head. “It’s just—when you leave…”

 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“Aren’t you?” Merlin asks softly. When Arthur meets his gaze, he looks sad. “You have a life, Arthur. A whole company full of people who depend on you. And Gwen.”

 

Now it’s Arthur’s turn to look away. “That’s over,” he says roughly.

 

“Is it? Because I seem to recall the two of you pledging to love each other until death do you part not so long ago. You chose _her_ , Arthur. That means something.”

 

Arthur remains silent. He has asked himself over and over whether this is the reason his marriage failed; if he’d allowed some stupid, half-satisfied itch for something _else_ , something _better_ , to ruin the best relationship he’s ever had. The conclusions he has come to in the process have not been flattering, but he knows his own mind, now, better than he ever has; he knows where his heart truly lies.

 

And it’s not with Gwen.

 

“You know I’m right,” Merlin is saying now—gently, like he’s breaking bad news. “I know it seems hopeless at the moment, but she’ll forgive you. She’s always been your soulmate.”

 

“No,” Arthur says quietly. “She hasn’t.”

 

He can feel Merlin’s stillness beside him, but he can’t—won’t—turn his head to look at him. It’s a cold night, damp but not unpleasant, the last of a bank of rainclouds obscuring the eastern horizon. The sun had set some time ago, but it doesn’t feel late yet; there are still lights on in the village, and Arthur can hear the sound of an occasional car passing by. Can hear Merlin’s unsteady breathing.

 

“So, dinner,” he says at length, his voice falsely bright. He brushes his hands off on his knees and pushes himself to his feet, turning in one brisk motion. “It should be almost done by now. Shall we?”

 

There’s a moment when Merlin hesitates, staring up at him. He’s pale in the light from the street lamps, eyes luminous, mouth slightly open, and for a moment Arthur thinks that he might be about to speak. He waits, but Merlin just swallows hard; Arthur sees the taut line of his back fold inwards as he gives in to the inevitable. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he agrees, tilting his head and offering Arthur a faint smile over the white knuckles of his hands. “I really do need to get something out of the car.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Arthur steadies himself on Merlin’s shoulder as he walks by, and counts it as a minor victory when Merlin doesn’t flinch away.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sunday morning, it's Merlin’s voice that rouses him from an empty sleep, and Arthur surfaces into a grey-blue darkness just this side of an early dawn. "Arthur, wake up." Merlin’s hand is on his shoulder, warm and familiar before it withdraws, and it takes a moment for Arthur to register that this is not a dream.

 

“What’s going on?” he asks, scrubbing at his face and sitting up. “Merlin? Is everything okay?”

 

“Everything’s fine.” Merlin smiles briefly, teeth appearing and disappearing in the darkness like a shoal of silver fish. “I want to show you something. Come on.” He hands Arthur a battered anorak and a pair of old hiking boots that once belonged to his uncle, a fact which Arthur deduces primarily from their age and the stiffness of the leather. “Put those on. I’ll grab us both some coffee and meet you at the door.”

 

It’s a cold morning. There’s a low-lying mist come in from the sea, wreathing Ealdor’s buildings in white and muffling the sound of their footsteps as they make their way up the old cliff track. It’s the same route they used to follow as boys, back before the lookout was closed off to the public, and one that Arthur could probably have followed in his sleep—which he _is_ following in his sleep, almost, his eyes still heavy as he stumbles along the overgrown path.

 

“Here we are,” Merlin says at last, stopping front of a low wooden bench at the top of the rise that Arthur can’t remember having seen before. “Sit. Drink. The sun will come up soon, and you’re going to enjoy the view.”

 

“Am I really,” Arthur grumbles, but he accepts the traveller’s mug of coffee that Merlin holds out to him and takes a sip. It’s still warm, and Arthur drinks slowly, charmed by the combination of the early hour and the sight of Merlin like this, dark hair windswept and eyes bright with exercise. It’s a memory Arthur didn’t know he had, an echo of something distant and precious, and the desire to kiss him wells up again like an unstoppable tide.

 

“Why are we here?” he asks, to distract himself. “You didn’t wake me up just for the sunrise.”

 

“I wanted to show you this.” Merlin turns to indicate the seat, which Arthur has to squint at in order to see properly. There’s a metal plaque in the middle, he realises—a dedication. His breath stops when he recognises the name.

 

“Two years ago today,” Merlin says into the silence, tracing the words with one finger. Arthur’s stomach feels tighter all of a sudden, like he’s going to throw up, because he hadn’t asked, had he, he’d just assumed—

 

“How did she die?”

 

“It was quick.” Merlin doesn’t look at him. “Car accident. She was pronounced dead at the scene.”

 

“I’m—”

 

“Don’t say you’re sorry.”

 

“But I—”

 

“I said, don’t.” Merlin leans forward, fixing Arthur’s attention with his steady, clear-eyed gaze. “I know you feel like…like you need to make up for things. And I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy your attempt at cooking dinner—” Arthur had burned the chicken curry and somehow undercooked the rice. “—but that wasn’t what I wanted. That was never what I wanted from you.”

 

Swallowing hard, Arthur looks away. “Then what _do_ you want?”

 

“You were my best friend,” Merlin says quietly. “Yes, I was in love with you—of _course_ I was in love with you—but you were my best friend first and I needed you, and you were just…gone. Cut me out of your life without a second thought.” His voice wavers a little; he stops for a moment, then goes on. “I wanted to call you, Arthur, when she died. I wanted to so badly. But I wasn’t even sure you’d pick up the phone.”

 

Arthur lets out his breath, lowering his head to rest it against his knees. “What do you want me to say? That I was a selfish bastard? I was. I still am. God, Merlin—”

 

“You didn’t know.” Merlin brushes a hand over his hair, lingering for a moment to tug gently on the pale strands. “But if we’re going to do this—if we’re going to be part of one another’s lives again, I need you to know one thing.” Arthur nods, eyes still closed, but Merlin catches him by the chin and tilts his face upward until he is forced to open them again out of self-preservation.

 

“If you want to walk away again, you can,” Merlin tells him softly. Unflinchingly. “But if you do, that’s it. Game over. It nearly killed me to lose you the first time, Arthur, and I can’t—I can’t do that again.”

 

“I thought—” Arthur clears his throat. “You told me not to contact you.”

 

“I didn’t mean _forever_. I figured you would last for a couple of months, tops, before you realised you’d been a total ass.” Merlin’s mouth quirks into a self-deprecating grin. “I guess I underestimated just how angry you were.”

 

“How afraid I was,” Arthur corrects him. “Afraid I might…I wasn’t sure I could make things work with Gwen if you were around. And I owed it to her to try.”

 

Merlin’s hand slips at his chin and drops away; Arthur can feel the cold air on his skin and wishes he would put it back, but Merlin is already looking towards the horizon, mouth compressed, his shoulders hunched a little against the cutting wind.

 

“I get that,” he says. “I know what happened between us was—a mistake. I wouldn’t have pushed you for anything—”

 

“Merlin, no,” Arthur interrupts, and Merlin stops talking. “That's not what I was worried about.” He sucks in a slow breath, tasting salt, and confesses, “I wanted to call you, too, you know. So many times.”

 

Their eyes meet and hold; then Merlin reaches out to hook their fingers together, pressing warmth into Arthur’s skin. “I’m glad you finally did.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Merlin is right about the sunrise; from here, they can see it dawn, blush-pink, spreading down from the tops of the hills to the rooftops below. Arthur is cold and half asleep, but also the sort of hyper-aware that comes from being awake too early in the morning, the buzz from their walk up the hill still humming in his fingertips.

 

He’s still in love with Merlin.

 

It’s not a revelation, obviously, since it’s hardly the first time he’s thought as much in the last few years—not even the first time in the past five minutes. What’s new is that it feels like maybe Merlin might still love him back, or could be persuaded to; that Merlin might possibly, probably, _potentially_ forgive him for being such an abysmally stupid twat all those years ago. Their knees bump against one another where they sit, and every so often Merlin glances over to point out something interesting in the harbour, nudging Arthur with his elbow to make him look. Below, Ealdor is alive with activity, both farmers and fishermen already up and about their business, and it’s as though they’ve been inducted to a secret world, full of the parts of life that usually go unnoticed. Arthur doesn’t let go of Merlin’s hand.

 

They don’t do much for the rest of the day. Merlin disappears into his bedroom for a while when they get back, and Arthur uses the time to make a couple of phone calls he’s been putting off, one to his lawyers and the other to his elder sister.

 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Morgana asks, when he informs her of his plans. “This isn’t some kind of—early mid-life crisis, or something like that?”

 

Arthur stares up at the ceiling, trying to put words to the certainty he’s felt since the moment Merlin picked up the phone. “I know it’s a big change,” he says. “After living in the city for so long, I mean. But it’s like…I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like I took a wrong turn several years ago, and now I’m finally getting back on course. You know?”

 

Morgana sighs—he pictures her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line—but she doesn’t tease him.

 

“On your own head be it,” she says, and it sounds like a blessing.

 

 

+

 

 

That night, after dinner, Merlin is the one who brings out two bottles of red wine, setting them down on the table in front of Arthur with a thunk and pulling up a chair.

 

“It’s a tradition,” he explains, when Arthur looks at him askance. “Or at least, this year I’m making it one. On the anniversary of the accident, I spend the night getting stupid drunk and feeling sorry for myself.” His eyes when they meet Arthur’s own are direct; almost challenging. “Care to join me?”

 

“Why not?” Arthur uncorks a bottle, but when he looks around for a glass, Merlin shakes his head.

 

“Not tonight,” he says. He takes up the second bottle and opens it, holding it by the neck for a moment before lifting it in a salute. “To my mother,” he says. “May she rest in peace.”

 

“To Hunith,” Arthur echoes, clinking bottles, and they drink.

 

The wine is cheap and not particularly good; it has a rough, sour taste that makes Arthur wince as it goes down, but Merlin doesn’t seem to notice. He makes another toast, this time to the EMS workers who had pulled his mother from the wreckage—a detail that’s so very like him to acknowledge that Arthur has to gulp at his wine to keep from saying something he’ll regret. The next toast is a salute to Merlin’s Uncle Gaius, heart-felt, and then Merlin looks straight at Arthur again and says, “To old friends.”

 

“To old friends,” Arthur repeats. He’s conscious of his rabbiting pulse, the scratchy sensation of near-tears trapped behind his eyes as he holds Merlin’s gaze. “And new beginnings.”

 

They drink. Eventually—slowly—Merlin begins to talk. He stares at the bottle while he does so, picking the label off with his thumb then smoothing it back on, crinkling the corners and rubbing at the glue still stuck to the glass. But he still talks, low and steady and quiet, about how hard it was for him those first few months after the car crash; how he still keeps expecting his mother to walk through the door. He talks about the funeral, about dialling and deleting Arthur’s number half a dozen times, about any number of other tiny moments that bring a lump to Arthur’s throat.

 

He doesn’t attempt to apologise again, however; instead, he matches Merlin’s offering with one of his own, explaining briefly and without bitterness the slow disintegration of his marriage with Gwen, the last few months he had spent with his father. It occurs to him that he hasn’t even properly grieved yet—being in Ealdor has meant that he doesn’t have to face it, that he’s been going along with his life as though nothing has actually happened. As though everything he knows has not been suddenly and irrevocably changed.

 

He’s not aware that he’s started crying until Merlin leans over and touches him, his palms warm and slightly clumsy where they cup Arthur’s face.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for all of that.”

 

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Arthur replies, swiping at his nose. “I’m the one who fucked everything up.”

 

“Yeah?” Merlin smiles crookedly. “’S not how I remember it. There were two of us in that bed, Arthur.”

 

“Yeah, but.” Arthur gestures with one hand, shaking his head. “I was the one who was getting married.”

 

“And I was the one who kissed you first.” Merlin’s mouth tilts upwards, startlingly sweet. “Let’s say it’s a tie and call it even, yeah?”

 

“Yeah, all right,” Arthur says, after a moment, and they drink to that toast, too.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

And then it’s Monday, mid-afternoon, the lemon-grey light spilling in through Merlin’s curtains and onto the floor. It’s a public holiday, fortunately, which accounts for the fact that Merlin is still lying next to him, his face mashed into a pillow and one arm flung up above his head, and why neither of their phones are blowing up with angry calls. Arthurhas an odd sense of being somehow left behind, as though the rest of the town has goneoff without them and they are the only ones who remain, cocooned together in a bubble of drowsy silence.

 

It isn’t what it feels like: they didn't do anything the night before except get stupidly drunk, just as Merlin had promised, although Arthur has a vague memory of blowing raspberries against Merlin’s bare shoulder, somewhere deep into the second bottle. He’s not sure how they ended up here exactly—the precise train of events is rather fuzzy—but he remembers sitting with Merlin for a while on the kitchen floor, talking; remembers wrapping an arm around him as he helped him to his feet and vowing never to let anything separate the two of them ever again. Apparently, Merlin had taken him at his word.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey,” Merlin murmurs, a small smile crossing his face. Arthur can’t stop looking at him, his eyelids all red and puffy from crying, dark hair tousled from sleep. Was this what it was like, that first time, when he’d woken up with Merlin in his bed and in his arms? He can’t imagine it. Surely if he had ever lain here like this, if he’d ever seen Merlin when he first woke up—the reluctant wrinkle of his nose, the way he burrowed his face into the covers to get out of the light—he would never have thought marrying Gwen was a good idea. “Timezit?”

 

“Dunno.” Arthur can’t resist—he’s tracing the side of Merlin’s cheek before he can think about it, running the end of one finger along his forehead and down to the tip of his nose. “Afternoon, I think. Go back to sleep.”

 

Merlin lets out a huff of air that might be a laugh. “Can’t,” he says, scrunching up his face. “You’re tickling me.”

 

“Sorry.” He’s not sorry at all, and Merlin slits one eye open with such a sceptical expression that Arthur has to bite his lip to control his smile. “I’ve decided to stay in Ealdor,” he blurts, the decision he’d made the day before spilling out of him without prompting. Merlin’s other eye opens as well this time, both of them fixed on Arthur’s face. “I spoke to my lawyer yesterday. I’m going to sell my shares in my father’s company and use the money to buy a farm here. I mean.” He stops, swallowing, tasting stale wine and bile sharp on his tongue. “If that’s okay with you.”

 

Merlin is staring at him. “You’re going to buy a farm.”

 

“Well. Yes.” Arthur shrugs his shoulders, a movement made difficult by the fact that Merlin is lying on one of his arms. “You know I’ve always wanted to do something practical with my life.”

 

“Yeah, but…a farm.” Merlin’s smile breaks slowly, reminding Arthur of the sunrise the day before, blinding even through the dull ache of his head. “You won’t last five minutes out in the country, you prat. You’ll have to get up early every day and traipse around in the mud and—Christ, I don’t know. Do you even know what farmers _do_?”

 

“I’ve done research,” Arthur says loftily, shoving at him. “And I’m not completely stupid, you know. It’s a sound investment, and I’ve been wanting to make a change for a while now, get out of the city…” He trails off. It’s not exactly a lie, but it’s not the whole truth, either. “And I want to be closer to you.”

 

Merlin’s expression sobers a little. “Arthur, you don’t…if this is meant to be some kind of a grand gesture—”

 

“It’s not,” Arthur says quickly. “A grand gesture would be me buying _you_ the farm, or paying off the mortgage on your mother’s house, or donating everything to your uncle’s surgery—though that’s not to say I wasn’t tempted.” He smiles tentatively when Merlin makes a face. “This is just…it’s what I want to do, Merlin. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I want to stay.”

 

“Then stay,” Merlin says. He levers himself up on his elbows and leans over to kiss Arthur, dry and close-mouthed, taking him completely by surprise before rolling over and hauling himself out of bed. “Stay and farm sheep, then, city boy. If nothing else, I’m sure the rest of us could use the entertainment.”

 

“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” Arthur calls after him,finding his voice, but Merlin is already ducking into the bathroom, smirking over his shoulder as he closes the door.

 

 

+ 

 

 

Later, when Arthur is finally up and dressed and feels less like he’s been hit by a bus, he goes into the kitchen to find Merlin making coffee. Outside, a light drizzle has started up, covering the countryside in a fine mist of rain, and Arthur is struck again by how beautiful it is out here. How peaceful. Merlin pours them both a cup and they sit at the table together in silence, their feet brushing occasionally under the table, and Arthur’s not stupid enough to think that a few conversations and a couple of bottles of wine can solve all their problems, but it’s a start. Tomorrow, he’ll walk in to the post office and send off the documents for Gwen, and then later, maybe, he’ll go looking at properties for sale with Merlin. The same Merlin who had kissed him when they woke up, and who keeps glancing at him now over the rim of his cup, cheeks turning red when Arthur smiles but not looking away.

 

It's not perfect, by any means. But it's home. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah, I can't believe I have finally finished this fic! Thank you so much to those who stuck with me for so long, and to anyone who picked up the story as it was being written. You guys are the best. I have one more instalment to go - I suppose you could call it an epilogue of sorts - and then this series is complete. Hope you have enjoyed the ride <3


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